


Quarter Tones

by sensitivebore



Series: Lady Lights [1]
Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: F/F, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-22
Updated: 2013-02-22
Packaged: 2017-12-03 06:19:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/695176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sensitivebore/pseuds/sensitivebore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sarah, and corner stones. [Features lyrics from Nico's These Days, written by Jackson Browne.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Quarter Tones

_I've been out walking, I don't do too much talking these days._

Sarah sits on the front step of the shop, watches the men carry in their boxes of possessions, their furniture; watches Elsie flit about directing them one moment, scolding them to be more careful the next. She's not sure what she's doing here, not really. There was nothing left for her at Downton, surely, but she's still not sure how she ended up here with Mrs. Hughes, with the housekeeper, with a woman she's had as much conflict as agreement with. _I guess_ , she thinks,  _it's good as anywhere else_. Lights another fag, shakes out the match. They don't know each other that well, she and Elsie, though they spent ten years, fifteen, working side-by-side, eating all of their meals together, sleeping in rooms next to one another. Sometimes sleeping in the same bed. She's quiet, the older woman, she's always been quiet unless she were giving orders or praise or criticism to her maids, or unless she were sparring with Carson over this or that. Sarah wonders briefly what there was between them, she and him; there had been something but she's not sure exactly what. For a few years she had thought they were in love; well, she amends, thought he was. It was obvious in the way he looked at her, listened to her, allowed her to argue and joust with him, but now she suspects it was something else for the housekeeper. Something love but not love. Maybe she should have tried to know her better, maybe she should have been less sarcastic and more interested, maybe she should have sought her out in her parlor and talked to her. About everything, about anything.

_These days I seem to think a lot, about the things that I forgot to do._

Elsie doesn't know her, either, not really. She knows Sarah is a hard worker, and doesn't whine, and is likely to cut with her tongue when cornered and sometimes when not cornered, but that's about all. She doesn't know about her family, all of her flocks of brothers and cousins and nieces and nephews, doesn't know that she misses them so terribly it aches deep in the pit of her stomach sometimes. She doesn't know that Sarah can cook like a demon, especially bake, doesn't know that she can churn out fairy cakes, light and moist, quick as looking at you. Sarah inhales, exhales, smiles absently at Elsie when she brushes past her, pats her shoulder lightly. She's been doing that more since they arrived, and it means nothing or something, Sarah's not sure. She doesn't put stock in light, fleeting fingers anymore; she doesn't see affection in sideways looks and tilted heads these days. Down that path was nothing but disaster, down that path was misunderstanding and hollow want and discarded smiles and slippery tile floors. The men pass her carrying the carpetbags, the trunks, and somewhere in those is the necklace she's stolen from Cora; not one of her good ones, not one of the diamonds or emeralds or even the rubies, but just a string of sapphires and silver, something Cora probably won't even miss for months, years perhaps. When she had left that bedroom for the last time, she had palmed it carefully, slid it up her sleeve until she could sequester it away wrapped it one of her stockings. It's a little sad sparkling insurance policy, should anything go terribly wrong. Should this not work out, should she take sick, should the place burn down around them somehow. There had been no qualms about taking it; after all, Cora had certainly forgotten to pay her often enough what she was due for all the little extra tasks. Dressing hair for her friends, sewing up some stupid woman's gown after a night rutting against a wall with someone else's husband. All things Cora would volunteer her for, promise to pay her, only for Sarah to never see a spare sixpence unless she reminded her employer with a pained smiled and gritted teeth. And then a flip of a lazy hand, a smile, a guilty little-girl giggle as she'd dig through her handbag for a thin clutch of notes, asking O'Brien how much is it again, I forget, I owe you a pound, remind me later. So she doesn't feel guilty about pilfering the little jewel, not a bit. Better to not leave things to chance.

_I stopped my rambling, I don't do too much gambling these days._

There's not really much pain left when she thinks of Cora now, just a gentle blurred numb feeling; the memories are all slide-show, all staccato image followed by image. Her hands in thick dark hair; a gossamer gown spread over her knees with needle flashing in and out; sweat pouring down a sick, stricken face; a pool of blood beneath a bathtub. Sarah watches Elsie pass by again, carrying her sewing basket, and she wonders. What would this woman make of it, what would she know of it? She doesn't know, Sarah thinks, how love and want and resentment and bitter bile can all mix together in a stomach until the only thing that can come of it is hurting someone. She doesn't know the dark fog that falls over a heart when years and years of slaving, of adoring, of doing anything everything just for a smile, a touch of hand, seems to be thrown to the wayside. Can't know that sometimes love is mingled so tightly with hate that all a woman can do is destroy the first breakable thing in sight. A piece of china, a pearl necklace, an unborn thing. Sarah crushes out her cigarette under her heel, lights another, fans the smoke away from her face. A cool swath of black brushes her arm as Elsie stops, asks if she'd like a cup of tea; she shrugs, tries to bend her lips into a friendly expression. She's pretty, the housekeeper -- she tries to stop thinking of her as the housekeeper, as Mrs. Hughes, but that will take time -- pretty in a clean, quiet way and she's restful to be around, but that's neither here nor there. She's slept in her bed, yes, and they've done other things together that women can do, but she does not love her. She could, perhaps, but she doesn't dare.

_I had a lover, I don't think I'll risk another these days._

It would almost be funny if it weren't so slightly sickening. Sarah, who has never been ashamed of what she is, of how she is; Sarah who has never hesitated to take a girl to bed when she's known she could get away with it. And now, after all these years, she feels it all closing in, closing up. Maybe people were right, maybe two women is a deadly, poisonous thing. Certainly she had been that to Cora, certainly Cora had been that to her. No, to be fair, Cora had been nothing except someone looking for a distraction, someone looking for a pair of arms and a pair of lips that would entertain her and listen to her little prattling problems and say all the right things when her husband had yet again left her neglected, had yet again let her wanting and bored. To be fair, it was Sarah who could turn venemous, Cora could only irritate. But doesn't a constant irritant infect and kill the same as a snake's precise strike? Doesn't it? Or is she making excuses for herself, for the damage she can wreak when wounded? Sarah doesn't know, doesn't bother to think about it too much. There's little point now because the mouse and the cobra are done circling one another and, oh, if Thomas could see her now. He would laugh so hard at the shadows that come and go beneath her eyes, at the way she can't sleep sometimes because all she can see is a rush of bleeding, a stained bar of soap. He'd laugh for an age at Hard Ass O'Brien who in the end let it all get to her.

_And if I seem to be afraid to live the life that I have made in song..._

Then again, maybe he wouldn't. They're two a penny, she and him; both bitter, both wanting, both hiding behind doors and corners and always keeping the exit just in sight. She misses him, no matter how big he got for his dandy britches, because he understood her and she him and even when they turned on each other, two weasels in a cage, something will always give and they'd find their smoking, bitching way back to each other in the courtyard. She doesn't know where he is now; she'd heard of some upset or another at Downton but when isn't he in the midst of something he ought not be? He'll land on his feet, whatever the case, and be down the rabbithole before the heat can get too hot. Sarah wouldn't be surprised if he shows up here one day; no idea how Elsie will react to that, she'd had little time for his cheek and his sarcasm and his indolent ways, but she's got a soft spot for young ones in trouble, so who knows? Cross that bridge when they get it, she supposes. Sarah sighs, clasps her hands around her knees. Thomas, and all of his grand plans, all of his big ambitions, and for what? He still will chase any boy with pretty eyes that looked at him twice, still will go to ruin for a gentle touch from a man's hand.

_...it's just that I've been losing so long._

Sarah doesn't have ambition anymore. What was there to work for besides her living now? She had never wanted to be a housekeeper like Mrs. Hughes; she had been happy to be Cora's maid, to work with fine things and be in the company of Her Lady, but that didn't work, couldn't work forever, not after afternoons in her bed, not after she had been inside her and on top of her and tasting her and holding her. Not after she had wiped tears from her face, and still had to ask for her pay. If she's lost now, it's because there's nothing to strive for, no hard wall to shove on, no lock to pick with angry, intent fingers. She supposes that's why this had seemed the best choice, the cleanest thing. A healthy thing, for a change. To live with a Good Woman and work for herself and own her home and not have to ask anyone for her food and the clothes on her back. It might be difficult, and uneasy, and strange -- for both of them, Elsie can't be feeling much more comfortable yet -- but at least it's decent. At least it's honest. At least it's not whorin', not anymore. She's too tired for that. She's too empty. She's not empty enough.

_I'll stop my dreaming, I won't do too much scheming these days._

The town is nice. It's small, quiet, clean; the people seem friendly but not over-friendly. No one seems nosy, they haven't yet been asked if they're sisters or cousins or spinster ladies, no one seems to care one way or another. Sarah smiles wryly. Spinster ladies. It's not really how she saw her middle age and on, but for all intents and purposes that's what they are, isn't it? Spinsters. Two women in black, two ladies formerly of service, two unmarrieds. A little huffed laugh pushes through her lips, is followed by a soft cloud of smoke. She looks over, startled, when Elsie hands her a cup of tea, when the older woman carefully smooths her skirts and sits next to her to watch the moving men get back into their rig with tipped hats and a wave. Elsie smells of vanilla, lemons, some soft floral, and her posture is perfect, ramrod, her ankles crossed prettily and tucked neatly to the side. She talks lightly of how they'll set up house, where things will go, when they will go and purchase their first store of supplies for the shop. Sarah sips her tea, makes noncomittal little sounds. She can decide all of that, whatever is fine with her; Sarah's too tired to worry about details like that right now.

_These days I sit on corner stones, and count the time in quarter tones to ten._

She begins to get lost in her thoughts again, to wander off; she's good at that, listening with one ear and being tucked away in her mind at the same time, but Elsie's warm, strong hand is pressing hers briefly and she glances over inquiringly. There's something turning in those blue eyes, something Sarah's not seen before and can't name now, but something -- something different is alive there now. For the first time since they left, since long before they left, a little of the malaise lifts from her shoulders. There's nothing Sarah loves so much as a puzzle, as something to figure out, and this shifting, new thing -- these slender, lovely fingers touching her wrist -- there's something here to examine, so she turns off her thoughts, puts that dark volume away on a shelf for a while and gives her full attention over to what Elsie is asking her.

"I think we can make a fine go of it here, Miss O'Brien, don't you?"

Sarah looks at her for a long moment, and another first in a long time, she feels some of the old spark relight, some of her old bite and sass. Grins a sudden white grin, parts pink lips, crinkles her eyes.

"Don't see why not, as long as you're not doin' the cooking." 

Elsie smiles and they get up then, go to inspect their new little home, their home for the first time in decades for both of them, really the first time ever for either of them as grown women and Sarah thinks,  _maybe_. Maybe here she can do something good, something better. Maybe here she can be something -- not something sweet, not something nice, not something proper, not even something new -- just something clean. Wash her hands, finally, of all of it.

_Please don't confront me with my failures, I had not forgotten them._


End file.
